


Gay Panic Button

by Void_senpai



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Canon Compliant, Deleted Scenes, Henry being extremely cute, Light Angst, M/M, POV Henry, Pining, so much goddamn pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28770606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Void_senpai/pseuds/Void_senpai
Summary: In which Alex is Alex and Henry's little gay heart cannot survive his bullshit.OrChapters from the book and offscreen scenes from Henry's POV
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 231
Kudos: 346





	1. These Colors DO Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> I told myself I was going to take a break from writing fic to focus on an original story I'm working on, but then I hit a wall and that familiar siren song of AO3 began to ring in my ears. So here I am, after rereading this ridiculous book for the fourth time six weeks and wishing we got to hear from Henry as Alex inadvertently tries to kill him. 
> 
> Also, for obvious reasons, this fic is going to include some lines of dialogue directly from the book. Those belong to Casey McQUEENston
> 
> Enjoy.

If adrenaline was measured in the human body like alcohol, Henry is currently blowing a .2%. 

Which is to say nothing about the champagne that likely makes up more of the liquid in his body than blood. The combination might very well be deadly. “Mixing uppers and downers” and all that. If it doesn’t kill him, this boy certainly will. Emotionally. Metaphysically. Sexually. Literally. 

Nothing beyond the first option is especially likely, but his doubt is more than enough motivation to flee the scene and put as many oceans, continents, and locked doors between the two of them as possible.

It also means ignoring his phone, his lifeline for the last several months since that horrid Christmas pageant of a PR stunt they’d put on. From texting each other every day, nightly phone calls to joke and jab and whinge about their tedious lives, those brief glimpses into Alex’s private world, to nothing. Cringing every time his phone makes a noise because he knows exactly who it is, and he can’t bear it.

_12:20am 1/1/20_

_Alex:_ **_Where are you?_ **

_12:35am 1/1/20_

_Alex: _ **_Call me_ **

_3 missed calls from: Alex_

_2 new voicemails from: Alex_

_12:52am 1/1/20_

_Alex:_ **_Henry_ **

_12:57am 1/1/20_

_Alex: _ **_Henry come on_ **

**_Please_ **

_4 missed calls from: Alex_

_3 new voicemails from: Alex_

_1:07am 1/1/20_

_Alex:_ **_Goddammit asshole answer your fucking phone_ **

Henry wakes up before the plane lands at Heathrow with a bitch of a hangover and at least a dozen more notifications that are some variation on the originals, and he is so mortified that he could scream. Now, he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he is perfectly content to lay sprawled on the sofa with a bottle of scotch and Mr. Wobbles curled up directly on his spleen, quietly contemplating the feasibility of pouring it all over his head and setting himself on fire. It may very well be preferable to what is surely to come from this singularly terrible decision.

The worst part is how happy he had been just days ago. How happy he had been for weeks. New Years Eve, he was positively giddy despite being woefully out of his element. You would think that after two decades of being trotted out for gatherings like this that he would be a natural, but you would be wrong. He never feels more like a tortoise on its back than when he’s surrounded by huge swathes of important people and gawking interns. But he was with Alex, who is impossibly stunning and completely mad and insistent on making Henry enjoy himself, something that is rarely a priority on the other side of the Atlantic.

It’s not that Henry went into the party expecting something to happen. Despite harrowing late-night fantasies of Alex’s head between his thighs or sex on the desk in the Oval Office, part of him hoped nothing would happen, just to spare him from the exact sort of agony he now finds himself in. It shouldn’t have been too difficult; He is nothing if not a master of self-control. But Alex grins at him like he’s the only person in the room, and oh no. He is so utterly fucked. His hands find Henry’s hips, swaying filthily, his thumbs pressing into the bones as if he might yank him flush against his body and into a sloppy kiss right there on the dance floor. And then it was hard. And then _Henry_ was hard. Good god. Henry groans and takes another swig of Macallan.

His photo gallery is another forbidden zone in his phone. What was once a series of cityscapes and shots of Bea and Pez has suddenly become an embarrassing quasi-shrine to the unwitting object of his affections. Too often he finds himself scrolling endlessly through photos of Alex going about his usual nonsense, and he aches with envy and wanting. If he was a normal bloke, he could have gone to study in the U.S., insulted this American prince, carefully befriended him, and then found out if he wanted to snog without it causing an international incident.

The bedtime selfies are positively lethal. It was difficult enough to get to sleep after the Ice Cream Raid, but now here he is, tucked among a mountain of pillows with his glasses and mussed hair, the barest sliver of stomach peeking out from the hem of his shirt and begging to be tasted. He likes to imagine himself distracting Alex from his work with wet kisses down his neck--because he knows it does not take much to distract him from anything--until Alex relents and lets Henry crawl into his lap, taking a fistful of curls and kissing him senseless. As it turns out, this is not the sort of desire that improves with moderate indulgence. Rather, Henry finds that just the smallest sample in the Whitehouse garden is enough to send that corner of his lizard brain into overdrive. Self-immolation isn’t sounding quick enough.

There is a knock on the door that’s too quiet for Pez but too friendly for Phillip.

“Go away, Bea,” he nearly slurs. Damn, he’s reached the slurring phase already? He looks at the bottle and doesn’t remember whether it was full or not when he took it. “I’m busy.” She slides inside anyways and fixes him with a dry look.

“Busy getting completely pissed at four in the afternoon?”

“Making my funeral arrangements.” She sighs and crosses the room to pluck the bottle from his hand and set it down out of his reach.

“You’re being awfully dramatic about this.”

“I am exactly the right amount of dramatic about this, thank you,” he says primly. Bea hates these dark moods of his, but she can usually be relied upon to express the appropriate amount of sympathy. She does not appear to be in much of a giving mood. She drops down onto the end of the sofa with a huff.

“Listen, I know you liked him, love. But this--” She gestures to all of him. “--is just a touch excessive.”

He swallows. Bea is not privy to all of his feelings about Alex, though to be fair, neither is Henry. Falling for a straight boy is a Shakespearean tragedy in any circumstance, but...Well, this is something else entirely. Or is it? His brain function is slowing to a crawl. He is embarrassed enough by his drunken mistake without her knowing just how completely besotted he was. 

Is.

_Ugh._

“I mean, this isn’t the first time you’ve been turned down, and I don’t think Alex is the sort who would be a prick about it.” He raises his head to look at her before plonking it back down.

“He didn’t turn me down, exactly,” he says cautiously, turning the ring on his finger. He can sense Bea’s ears perking up. He wanted to avoid divulging the details, but no one can run from his sister forever, and it looks like his bill has come due.

“What? I thought-- If he didn’t turn you down, then what’s all this about?”

“He didn’t say yes either. Or anything. I sort of just...kissed him,” he replies, cringing at the words. Her mouth pops open, and he decides that this was worse than her indulgence or disapproval.

“Did he kiss you back?” A distinct memory rises to the surface of plush lips moving and opening against his and a tug on his jacket. But it was over too quickly and he is far too addled to break it down in slow motion like an instant replay at a football match. He will later tonight once the doors are locked and he manages to sieve out all the shame. This feels like sixth form all over again.

“I...Yes?” She blinks back at him.

“I’m failing to see the issue.”

“The issue is that it was completely spur-of-the-moment. I was fantastically drunk and a bit distraught about all this, and then he just appears beside me with no warning and looking like a Calvin Klein model, and it wasn’t until I was already kissing him that I realized I had no plan whatsoever. So I panicked.” 

“And?”

“And then I left.”

“You kissed him and _ran?_ ”

“I did not _run_. I--” He waves his hand about, searching for the words. “--walked briskly.”

“I believe the last time a gay British monarch retreated from the Whitehouse, we set it on fire first.”

“Somehow this is not making me feel better.” Bea scrapes her hand over her face with a heavy sigh. This is why he didn’t tell her when he arrived. Any moment now, she’s going to tell him she’s “not mad, just disappointed.”

“And as you were stumbling ‘briskly’ onto a plane under cover of night dragging poor blue-balled Pez behind you, did it ever occur to you that he might like you? Or to give him a moment to properly react before running for the emergency exits?”

“It did, actually,” he says crisply. “Though I don’t expect he’s too keen on me anymore.”

Old habits die hard. Keeping things under wraps was easier at university, when he wasn’t under so much scrutiny by the papers or the Crown. Like a gay pressure valve, he could let a little bit out here and there to keep his sanity. Kensington upped the ante, and he adapted. And then this gorgeous chaos demon waltzed in and blew it all to hell. Self control? Gone. Dignity? Definitely gone. Ability to form a coherent thought without thinking about his smile or the taste of his breath? Dead and buried. It was only a matter of time before it all came to a head.

“Well, I suppose there’s the dinner in D.C. in a few weeks.” 

Perhaps he’s finally having a heart attack from all that partying and the onset has a long delay. For several hours, Henry is going to have to sit across from the boy who is supposed to be his best friend, surrounded by dignitaries and politicians, and pretend that nothing was amiss. Probably while Alex either seethes or ignores him completely beyond the photo ops, and he isn’t sure which will hurt more. He briefly considers searching the room for a match.

She must be able to see the new wave of anxiety spreading to his face, because the frustration passes and her expression softens. He remembers why he tells his sister these things. 

“Nevermind all that. How was the rest of the evening? Before the ambush?” He winces at the last bit, but tries to push it from his mind as he gazes at the cracks in the plaster ceiling above him.

“It was wonderful,” he says quietly. “You know how I feel about parties, but this time I didn’t mind at all. We danced to their ridiculous music for half the night and talked for the rest of it. And his friends were lovely. And he got me through all the endless introductions as quickly as possible, like he knew.” Something warm stirs in his chest, and he doesn’t think it’s the liquor trying to come back up. “He has this infectious energy and enthusiasm for everything, and he just gives it away. I don’t think I’ve ever been drunk on a person before.” It’s dawning on him just how much he must sound like some lovesick schoolgirl scrawling “Mrs. Alex Claremont-Diaz" on her notebook and dotting the “i”’s with hearts. Or some swooning catastrophe in an Austen novel. But Bea just smiles and rests a soothing hand on his leg, listening to him ramble as she always has. Whatever would he do without her?

“I think the moment I knew he had made me really and truly mad was when I thought, just for a moment, that I might be his first kiss of the new year.” He rubs his temples with one hand and sighs. “It’s silly, I know.”

Christ, he is a mess. He wants to ride out into a remote forest somewhere and let loose the primal scream that has taken up residence in his belly ever since Alex gave him his phone number. Behavior that would not be befitting the crown. Then again, neither is dreaming up an alternate ending to their encounter in the hospital supply closet that borrows heavily from the worst excesses of Drarry fanfiction while Phillip drones on about “fiscal responsibility.” That he could ever get an erection again after sitting through an hour of that is proof enough of a benevolent god.

“Have you called him?”

“No.”

“Has he called you?” He chews on his lip but doesn’t answer. “Henry?” He flings his arm over his face, though who he’s hiding from is anyone’s guess.

“Yes,” he says pathetically. “Eighteen times. And six voicemails. And eleven text messages. I’m sure a carrier pigeon will be concussing itself on my window any moment now.”

“And you think he’s called you eighteen times because he wants to turn you down?” He makes a noncommittal noise. She has a point. “All I’m saying is, if this were a mere international ‘bromance,’ he wouldn’t be sending you private selfies or calling you at two in the morning to ask about your day because he knows your sleep schedule and knows you’re awake. None of that sounds like a straight boy just wanting to be your mate.”

Neither do the maybe-joking horny comments about Shaan or their father, neither of which need to ever sully her ears

“That’s all very well and good, but it does nothing to change the fact that I’ve made an enormous ass of myself and would very much like to bury myself alive.”

“How is that different from any other day, dearest?” He scowls. She smirks and pats him affectionately before taking her leave. “Just try not to eulogize it so prematurely. Also, if you off yourself, I won’t be able to abdicate after I murder Phillip.” He rolls his eyes in defiance of the faint smile forcing its way onto his face. 

Well, fuck it. Guess he’s going to Washington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you're interested in more, please leave your love in the comments. Leave your thoughts in the comments. Leave haikus in the comments. Start fights in the comments. Hit me up on my tumblr your-void-senpai or the RWRB discord
> 
> BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE  
> Before I forget, if there are specific scenes or off-screen moments that you really wanted to see from Henry's pov, please let me know! I want to give the people what they want.


	2. No Homo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry's heart yo-yo's for eight hours straight.

Their next meeting is nothing short of an emotional rollercoaster. By the time he gets to the good part, Henry is almost one hundred percent convinced that he is either dead, hallucinating, or in an episode of _The Twilight Zone_. And really, who could blame him?

Alex, as will no doubt be stated in countless biographies in the decades to come, is not subtle. His constant staring and plotting and pouting soaks the back of the prince’s dress shirt with sweat. Henry has never had the pleasure of catching the telltale red dot of a sniper scope on his torso, but he supposes that this is close enough. He spent much of the flight preparing, trying to think of a way to explain himself without digging himself any deeper or blurting out the whole, unredacted truth: _I am completely smitten with you, I have been for years, and I desperately want to take you on a proper date before I drop to my knees to suck the soul out of you._

 _That_ bit of information will follow him to the grave. Alex’s ego would become so massive that there would be no living with him afterward. If they were still on speaking terms, that is.

The waiting is agonizing. At first, he thinks that Nora is rescuing him from more awkward conversation with the others, but then her eyes slide to something behind him with a conspiratorial glint. And then Alex materializes and he realizes he’s been hoodwinked. A veritable box-and-stick trap baited with profiteroles. He went to Oxford, for fuck’s sake.

In addition to kidnapping, being slammed against a wall and kissed like the apocalypse is upon them was not on Henry’s D.C Dinner Bingo card. Alex is using an amount of force that shouldn’t be possible from someone of his stature, all to press Henry closer, closer, until they might as well be wearing each other’s clothes. He catches the scent of his aftershave and cologne, which instantly takes him back to Alex lying on top of him in the closet, and it’s fantastic. Everything about this is unbelievably, soul-crushingly hot. That’s not the problem. The problem is that this isn’t really how he was hoping to go about this.

“Wait,” Henry says, trying to suck in enough oxygen to speak. Alex detaches from his throat and looks him dead in the eyes. “Should we--”

“What?”

“I mean, er, I dunno--” Ten years of lessons in elocution, and this is all he can muster? “--slow down? Go for dinner first or--” Maybe Alex will kill him after all. 

“We just had dinner.”

“Right. I meant--I just thought--”

“Stop thinking,” Alex replies roughly, and Henry is so turned on by it that he almost forgets to be grateful that his idiotic babbling about dates hasn’t completely turned Alex off. Fine. This is fine. He can work with this.

And then the candelabra is on the floor and he’s being shoved onto furniture that costs as much as a car and he is burning up from the inside out. It has been far too long since he’s been touched like this. Has he ever been touched like _this?_ He isn’t sure. What he is sure about is that Alex is his new oxygen. Perhaps he’s being a bit clingy, what with the leg pinning Alex against his groin or the Vulcan death grip on the roots of his hair. Judging by the breathy, lewd feedback he’s getting, Alex doesn’t mind much.

His sense of time has gone all wobbly and Henry has no idea how long he’s been grinding against him or that Alex has been clawing at him from under his jacket. As much as he wants to commit all of this to memory, it seems that this lust-haze comes with short term memory loss. Nevermind that a president, a prime minister, and all their assorted guests will be swinging the door open any second now. Well, they were promised dinner and a show.

Most importantly, this is the second time in as many months that he’s been kissing Alex and suddenly had a startling moment of awareness that he has no idea what he’s doing, what’s going on, where he is, who he is, or what is going to happen next. Which would also be very hot, again, if it weren’t for the herd of rich white people and their cameras just a hair’s breadth away. Alex gasps and curses in response to a bite on his bottom lip, and the sound drags Henry under once again.

Except that Amy is at the door now, sounding the alarm for the oncoming stampede. Damn her. Bless her. Alex pulls away looking flushed and eyeing him hungrily as he begins sorting himself out, and Henry is starting to feel more than a little hysterical. Every single thing about this evening is bloody ludicrous.

Everyone in _Downton Abbey_ is always going on about things being “beneath your dignity,” meaning something they shouldn’t have to suffer by virtue of their rank in the absurd hierarchy of an aristocratic household; the head butler making his own tea, the Earl scratching his own arse, etc. A small humiliation that should belong to someone else because you are supposedly too far above it. Despite his own rank, the concept always sounded absurd to him. Until now, because this specific boner is absolutely beneath this dignity.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” Alex begins. He tries to avoid glancing at Alex’s trousers. “You’re gonna go be, like, five hundred feet away from me for the rest of the night, or I am going to do something that I will deeply regret in front of a lot of important people.”

Oh god.

“Alright…”

“And then--” Christ, he’s strong. “-- you are going to come to the East Bedroom on the second floor at eleven o’clock tonight, and I am going to do very bad things to you, and if you fucking ghost me again, I’m going to get you put on a fucking no-fly list. Got it?”

Henry’s legs are more than ready to give out under him, either from the shock of the last five minutes, or the approaching sound of footsteps, or the combination of the content and the delivery of Alex’s proposal. He chokes out his assent, and then watches as he paces nervously like a lion in a cage. Setting aside the moderate panic attack that will need at least two more whiskey’s to quell, a queer spark of delight passes through him at the sight of a very flustered Alex. Oh, how the tables have turned.

His worst fears now quelled, Henry approaches the situation--and Alex’s door--with the same attitude as their text messages: mild antagonism with a sharp edge of friendly competition. While he is completely unopposed to being bossed around by this neanderthal, he’s not going down without a fight, no pun intended. Nor is he letting him get away with gloating or teasing Henry for fancying him. Henry has played this game longer than him, much longer if his instincts are correct, and he is not above exploiting that fact to get his sexy revenge.

So he manhandles Alex into his lap, the soft skin of his lacrosse-toned chest under his fingertips and Alex is successfully trying to destroy Henry with his teeth. What sort of black magic is that? There’s excitement and nerves and Alex’s wicked smirk that makes Henry swallow thickly like he’s about to jump out of a plane. He is not-- _not_ , he repeats to himself--going to let himself be distracted by any of it. Until Alex is trailing open-mouthed kisses down his torso, and then all bets are off. His brain is so soaked in testosterone and he’s so delirious from the sight of Alex’s tongue on him that the clumsiness doesn’t affect the experience at all. In fact, there is something quite endearing about being his first that makes Henry’s heart flutter. He knows the feeling well enough not to mistake it for the building tension that is about to burst in his belly.

It may seem counterintuitive, but this is where Henry really shines. Sex is the only time that he has no choice but to relax his facade, to let himself loose, because by that point, there is nothing he could hide. One simply cannot continue to uphold the charade of the prim, refined, upstanding progeny of a centuries-old bloodline with a cock in your mouth.

So he doesn’t. All of that nonsense was dropped to the floor along with his trousers, and for a little while, he just _is._ And he’s good at it. He hasn’t exactly checked up on the Yelp reviews, but he’s confident that he can take Alex’s word for it. A single word, it appears. And that word is “fuck.” Lost in the thrill being allowed to touch Alex, who is sprawled out in front of him, naked and writhing. A ragged noise of desperation tears out of Alex, and Henry can’t help but smirk around him. He talks a big game, but he’s putty in Henry’s hands. Now Alex is at _his_ mercy, and it’s about bloody time.

Alex is...Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. The task at hand is easier when he can see what he’s doing, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the lip caught between Alex’s teeth. He’s already so wound up again that he knows he could go another round. He would try anyways, because he doesn’t want this night to end. And then Alex shudders with a long, toe-curling groan, and Henry thinks he may have just seen the face of God.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been at it, but the second he lands on the pillow beside Alex, he’s certain that it’s over far too soon. That’s when reality barges in, dumping a bucket of water over his head and demanding to know just what the hell he thinks he’s doing. He tries to ignore it a little while longer and just lie here and bask in the glorious rays of the afterglow, perhaps stuffing a few more kisses in his pocket for the trip home. 

It nearly works, too. He would think Alex is at death’s door were it not for the cheshire cat grin on his face, casting its own light in the dim room. Henry is tucked into his side, skin tacky with sweat, and lets out a purr of satisfaction into his shoulder. He’s still floating, and when Alex suggests they do this again sometime, he nearly levitates.

“And you know this doesn’t, like, change anything between us, right?”

Oh.

In that moment, Henry is stunned to discover that it is indeed possible to work a subtle “no homo” into a proposition for future gay sex. Alex is, unfortunately, quite amazing in what he can accomplish. He claps a hand over his eyes, caught between embarrassment, fatigue, and weary resignation--more the latter two than the former--and hopes that it comes off as stuffy British sensitivity to the impropriety of the word “blowjobs.” It’s dissolved with Alex’s trademark bluntness and a kiss, and then it’s back when he very gently kicks Henry out of his bed.

Beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes, tugging his pants back up his legs and trying not to feel hurt by it. He came here with nothing--less than nothing--and is going to walk out with awe-inspiring memories and a promise for later. He should feel much more grateful for it. This is far more than he thought he would ever get from Alex, and he’s painfully aware of the impossibility of anything more than this. Not just for his own sake, but for the FSOTUS and his mother. He and his idiot heart had been over this numerous times before, but after having Alex in his arms, he doesn’t think it’s done any good.

Which is why he hesitates at the door. Not because he thinks Alex would necessarily be opposed to another kiss, but because Henry can’t properly justify it. He’s only making it worse for himself. He can’t help it. Alex gives him another shock, breaking him out of his own head yet again to make him laugh, and he wonders if he’s doing it on purpose. He’s a walking contradiction; so unbelievably thick ninety-percent of the time while somehow always knowing what Henry needs. He returns the kiss with equal intensity and lets the dizzying energy propel him back to his own bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback and the kudos, everyone! I love hearing from you. Please continue to let me know what you think in the comments.
> 
> Next chapter: Pez, polo, and possibly Paris


	3. We'll Always Have Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry wonders why he does this to himself.

“You’ll have to say it once more, Henry. I believe your darling Pezza is having a stroke.”

Henry squints disapprovingly at the candy-colored pansexual hurricane grinning at him from the other side of the sleek, modern coffee table. He came here for tea and a good time, not these _ad hominem_ attacks.

“I _said_ \--” Was Pez honestly going to make him repeat himself? It took nearly a minute of stammering and er’s and um’s for him to spit it out the first time. “--that I-- _Christ--_ I slept with Alex.” He can feel himself blushing again. “Last week. In his bedroom.”

“Not on the president’s desk?” 

“No! Would you--” Henry sputters and takes a very long sip of tea. His face has now upgraded from “pink” to “lobster” in a matter of milliseconds. “That was a joke!”

No it wasn’t.

“So your master plan of seduction worked, then?” he replies, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he tears into a sandwich. _What plan,_ he thinks. Alex is seemingly immune to his Prince Charming routine, which is actually a bit refreshing. Henry chuffs.

“Definitely not. He was very cross with me. Five seconds in and I thought he was going to throttle me in the middle of the foyer.”

“Oooh, angry sex. Kinky.” 

“Stop.”

“The colonizer gets _colonized_.”

Henry fixes him with an even look. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be telling you anything.”

“Oh, don’t spoil my fun,” he whines. “I must know. You’ve pined for this boy for months, and I can see that you’re positively bursting to tell me. Details now.” 

There is no use denying either point. More than one bottle of cognac has gone to its great reward in the sitting room of Pez’s London penthouse, where they would bemoan their respective love lives between hiccups. Henry would inevitably wander into some anecdote about Alex, complete with embarrassing and rather saccharine editorializing, and wake up the next morning wondering where his self-respect had wandered off to. But Pez is a fellow romantic, increasingly so in proportion to the number of drinks he’s had, and so he would sigh sympathetically and compose a sonnet about June’s arse.

Henry has already told him about the day at the children’s hospital, trapped in a pitch-black closet with Alex like some great cosmic joke. He hasn’t experienced horseplay-as-flirting since he was a teenager. It’s a cunning excuse to touch and grab and get uncomfortably close, to work each other up into a painfully erotic state of flushed and panting with built-in plausible deniability. Perfect for instigating something and offering prime wanking material as a consolation prize. Henry isn’t convinced that Alex is that much of a mastermind, and--paired with the sharp jab to his ribs-- he finds it is far more likely that it was just another manifestation of his childish vendetta. Now, he likes to think of it as an attempt to flirt with him. For all his gifts, his intelligence, his work ethic, Alex does not appear to be in possession of enough self awareness to pull that off. 

Pinning him down to the floor was...an _experience,_ to be sure. He was loath to admit that Pez’s suggestion was not wholly inaccurate. There is a definite thrill to asserting his power over a smart-alecky boy who wriggles and fights underneath him as if it wasn’t painfully arousing. It reminds him of the sweet exertion of wrestling a hookup onto his back, of dominance and victory. A brief glimpse of control in an existence wholly bereft of it. But mostly he just likes to hear the other concede and feel the gratifying singing of worked muscles before rolling onto his back to get the care and attention he craves. 

“Fine, but you’ll have to behave yourself or I will tell June what a scoundrel you are. Unless that’s her type, in which case I will tell her that you’re born-again and waiting for marriage.” Pez clutches his heart in mostly mock dismay.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.” A moment passes for Henry to recover, but Pez is not about to wait another second. He stuffs a sandwich into his mouth to buy himself some time.

“So?” Pez drawls over a wicked grin. “How is he?” Henry presses his lips together, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling into his tea like an idiot.

“He’s a little minx.” 

His friend howls with laughter, and Henry thinks security is going to release the hounds. He recounts the tale, leaving out some of the more salacious details that Pez--of course--drags out of him anyways. Henry is admittedly rather glad to be able to crow about this with someone. It has been so easy to simply ruminate on the less-than-ideal aspects of their relationship--well, not relationship. Arrangement? Tête-à-tête? However, he knows that he needs to purge those as well.

“And then he told me that it wouldn’t change anything between us. No-strings-attached. I think it was intended to be reassuring.”

“Ah, but Pinnoccio wants strings.”

“You know I do. Not that it matters,” he adds darkly. 

Pez knows better than to argue with him about it. He is very much enamored with the idea of anguished confessions and throwing caution to the wind in the name of love, but he can afford to be. He’s the eccentric millionaire philanthropist who keeps a pet lemur and once jumped naked into the Thames on a dare. He could marry the Eiffel Tower and no one would bat an eye because a remote village in Ghana now has running water. It took exactly one fight some years ago to make him understand this, and he never made such a suggestion again. Instead, he smiles sadly and warms Henry’s cup.

“You owe me fifty quid, by the way.” Pez sits back in his chair, eyebrow raised with amused skepticism.

“Really? And here I thought he was an international man of mystery.”

“Yes, well, apparently all of those mysteries had tits.” Pez chuckles and claps.

“Bravo. You’ve ensnared another one.” Ah yes, another impressive achievement to add to his collection. It can go in the display cabinet somewhere between his degree and his polo trophies. Speaking of which.

“I’m seeing him again next week. Not for very long, mind you. But he’s been very...eager to pick up where we left off.” There he goes, smiling like an idiot again. It’s something Bea likes to tease him about when she catches him on his phone.

“Well _bonne chance_ , darling."

Fuck, he needs it.

~~*~~

Knowing Alex is among the crowd is more distracting than he expected, which is ridiculous for a number of reasons. He’s accustomed to being watched. He’s endured Gran’s attendance more than once, her dignified royal Frankenstein scowl etched into her face as deeply as it is her soul, and the stakes are low enough to hop over. It’s a charity match for orphaned kittens with malaria or something like that. Not exactly the plot of _Hoosiers_. It doesn’t matter if they win, even though it’s just expected that a thoroughbred boy on his thoroughbred horse should prevail. Just by sharing the air, he is pulling more ticket-buying eyeballs for the cause. Henry knows he’s good. Maybe it’s simply the anticipation of seeing Alex again. Then, in a half-second of downtime, he scans the crowd and their eyes meet, and Alex looks transfixed. It’s getting a bit warm out here, isn’t it?

Dismounting and slipping away afterwards is tricky. Getting off of his horse and leaving is, too. He would rather skip the photos and back-slaps so he can track Alex down and begin ticking items off the list of things he’d like to do to him. It finally happens, and for one breathless moment, they’re just standing there, taking each other in. Behind his smile, there’s something shifty and anxious in Alex’s posture, like a teen shoplifting condoms from a petrol station. He’s just as nervous to see Henry again as Henry is to see Alex, as if it’s been months instead of weeks and as if they haven’t been texting each other constantly. 

_Alex:_ **_so its just croquet on a $50k horse? I literally cant think of anything more_ **

**_pretentious_ **

_Me:_ **_I’ll have to introduce you to Phillip then_ **

_Alex_ **_: and you still wear the outfit with the thin pants and everything?_ **

**_even though its cold as balls out?_ **

_Me:_ **_Is mummy worried I’ll catch a chill? I can_**

**_put some more layers on if you’d like_ **

_Alex:_ **_dont you fucking dare._ **

**_its just making more work for me_ **

_Me:_ **_What if I like making you work for it?_ **

_Alex:_ **_now whos the menace?_ **

_Alex:_ **_on my way._**

**_dont wear yourself out sweetheart. Thats my job_ **

It takes him a moment to come-to, and he wants to reach out and embrace Alex properly, but the cameras are alight and time is of the essence. Instead, he nods and leads him down the corridor.

Alex is and always has been an enigma. Watching him stammer and squirm and swear at him for god knows what reason is initially somewhat unnerving, until it’s very, very funny. Alex doesn’t give him long to dwell on that. He would much rather set to work completely wrecking Henry.

First, it’s the visual of him hastily unlacing Henry’s pants that weakens him. Next, it’s the way Alex throws himself into it. No holds barred, just like everything else he does. Alex is a quick study. Henry might have previously attributed this to his contrarian streak, but the way he answers Henry’s hoarse praise with a rumbling moan in his throat tells another story. God bless America.

Henry would like to have him properly, on a bed or a sofa like before. An unfortunate proportion of his sexual encounters have been much like this: secret dalliances in coat closets or stables or against trees. There was a certain thrill to it in his youth-ier youth, like an adventure or the mad illicit affairs in historical novels between duchesses and grooms or landed lords and lady’s maids. Lately, it’s growing very tiresome.

So he puts it from his mind and devotes himself to devouring whatever bits of Alex he can get his hands on. Not savoring. Bingeing. Who knows when they will see each other again. They spend every remaining second kissing and groping blindly like teenagers, as if they hadn’t spent the last fifteen minutes fully appreciating each other’s endowments. It takes a while to calm down enough to re-enter the world.

And now Henry has to get back on an eight hour flight to that so-called “shithole” and try not to be openly resentful of it. Pez texts him several eggplant emojis followed by as many question marks. Henry replies with a winking face, and Pez immediately fires back with a calendar invite for tomorrow afternoon titled SPILL THE TEA.

~~*~~

It’s a date. 

It’s definitely a date. It has to be.

He’s sitting at a quaint bistro in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, talking and laughing with Alex for hours over a bottle of merlot. There is still a strong chill in the air that brings out the faintest touch of color in his cheeks and sweeps his dark brown hair into an elegant kind of dishevelment that looks so soft and inviting. Henry’s wearing buttery calf-leather gloves against the cold, but all he wants is for Alex to grasp his bare hand and guide them both into his coat pocket while they wander the cobblestone streets. He wants to wrap an arm around his shoulders and press a kiss to the boy’s temple while he tells Henry about his dreadful economics professor, who features prominently in his stress dreams and is half the reason Alex has forbidden him from wearing tweed. Henry offers his services for some “exposure therapy,” which he regretfully declines.

Alex whispers things in his ear at every opportunity. Dirty things. Witty things. Sweet little things that are so easy for someone like Alex to say but terrifying for Henry, and they mean everything. How is anyone meant to combat the combined forces of the universe when they are conspiring against him like this? Every new thing he learns is nudging him even closer to the deep end.

He learns that Alex’s penchant for pet names is not, as previously thought, necessarily borne of sarcasm and spite. This is also how Henry learns that he is an absolute whore for boys that whisper them pleadingly into his ear.

_“Baby.”_

Apparently that’s the password to Henry’s heart and his zipper. He isn’t keen to test it, but he thinks Alex could talk him into absolutely anything with one word. It’s dangerous and reckless and stupid, and so are they. Stupid enough to cap off a positively magical evening of lights and laughter and sex by drifting off in eachother’s arms. It’s only implied, never stated, that they aren’t supposed to do that. Their PPO’s and the press are the easiest rationale, but Henry knows better.

It’s when he wakes up the next morning with Alex adhered to his side, an arm around Henry’s waist and slow, steady breaths brushing against his neck, that Henry concludes he could die happy. He’s learned that Alex sometimes tosses and mumbles in his sleep, but he relaxes almost instantly when Henry hugs him to his chest. He’s also learned that his bed head is wild and extremely amusing, and that he is largely nonverbal until at least halfway into his second cup of coffee. He needs actual sustenance soon or all that caffeine on an empty stomach will make Alex’s body take a screenshot.

The most startling discovery of them all-- though it really shouldn’t be--is that Henry is past the point of no return. There is no possible way that he can deny it or rationalize it away anymore. Henry has fallen completely and totally in love with him.

Who could have guessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As everyone knows, disaster bisexuals don't text with punctuation.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and kudos. I'm always delighted to hear from you.
> 
> As always, please leave your feedback and let me know if there are any moments or scenes you'd like to see in the next one.


	4. Mr. Grey Will See You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry wonders if Alex is fucking serious right now

The distance is torturous sometimes. Henry is constantly reminded that there is somewhere else he could be right now, somewhere wonderful. Knowing such a place exists is both a blessing and a curse. He now knows for certain that he can be happy, only he is almost never there and can’t linger in it for long. It was easier to be Kensington’s most photographed ghost when he wasn’t aware that he could feel like this.

After some sweet talk and arm-twisting, he finally relents and downloads Snapchat. It’s... odd. Having grown up with photos of himself plastered all over magazines and gossip websites, Henry isn’t sure what to make of Alex’s insistence that he download it. But it’s an opportunity to see his face more often while they’re apart, and what is Henry going to do? Say no to him? Hilarious.

It’s after he receives his first snap from Alex that he understands what a massive return he’ll be getting on his investment. The boy has never been mistaken for camera-shy, a feeling Henry envies, though he is very, very grateful for it. Alex is delighted to send a barrage of pictures at all hours and in varying states of dress, each one coldly calculated to interfere with Henry’s concentration and willpower. Everything he does somehow makes Henry even gayer, if that was a possibility. It may come as a bit of a shock, but in his experience, the temptation to send dick pics drops dramatically in most boys when the intended recipient is a monarch so deep in the closet that he’s having tea with Mr. Tumnus. Henry is glad that Alex has no such inhibitions. Usually.

Me: **_That was horribly unfair_**

Alex: **_you should know by now that I dont fight fair_ **

**_Im a cop on the edge who plays by his own rules_ **

Me: **_And I’m a prince on a conference call_**

**_who nearly showed Bea your bare arse_ **

Alex: **_good ive been wanting to get an outsider’s opinion_**

**_I just can’t get the lighting right_ **

Me: **_The lighting is excellent. Your timing, however_**

Alex: **_is also excellent. i’ll put the_**

**_“fun” in “fundraiser.”_ **

**_also the “raise”_ **

Henry receives another notification and is foolish enough to open it.

Me: **_I have to stand up in about five minutes,_**

**_you little demon. I’d rather not be giving_**

**_a full salute when I do._ **

Alex: **_yeah you arent exactly known for your patriotism_ **

**_scandalize an MP for me <3_ **

Later that afternoon, Henry strips and fires off a mirror shot during Alex’s lectures. Two can play at this game.

Alex: **_fuck you_**

Me: **_Later, darling._**

Alex: **_i mean what is with your abs_ **

**_you could grate cheese on those things_ **

Me: **_Yes but the smell tends to linger_ **

Then there are those late-night Facetime sessions that leave Henry sated until he wakes in the morning and not a second longer. Phone sex was never something that particularly sparked his interest, but now it’s a gift directly from God. Henry is willing to take whatever he’s willing to give.

He thinks about his approaching birthday. It’s another number ticked off on the calendar, another year closer to that amorphous date his teenage self expected to have everything figured out, or at least to have some semblance of a plan that didn’t involve faking his own death. Another year closer to the looming cliff’s edge of his “responsibilities,” his “place” within the family and the Crown. He doesn’t want to think about that. He wants to think about running off to New York like it’s Gretna Green and never coming back.

Alex: **_just two more days baby i promise_**

Me: **_Not soon enough. Phillip is being impossible_ **

**_and it’s going to give me a nervous breakdown_ **

Alex: **_close your eyes and think of england_ **

Me: **_How is that supposed to help?_ **

Alex: **_idk seems like it’s been working for Martha_ **

Me: **_JESUS CHRIST ALEX_**

~~*~~

He waits for Alex in his hotel room, drumming his fingers impatiently. Of course they need to come up separately. He’s very familiar with the utility of it. It’s just that Henry can’t truly relax until he arrives, and he’s already agitated from the press and keyed up from the anticipation. He needs Alex’s hands in his hair and mouth at his throat and to have his consciousness blasted into outer space. Then he hears the echo of footsteps on the stairs, and now he knows how David feels when Henry gets home.

There’s no knock, because he’s swinging the door open and yanking Alex inside by the lapels so quickly that he wonders if Cash is going to burst in and put him in a headlock. A surprised noise melts into a low, breathy laugh as Henry kisses him soundly. So what if he’s being clingy. He can afford it. If there was ever a time to show how happy he is that Alex is in the world, his birthday would be it. Everything else is a problem for Tomorrow Henry. God, Alex is starting to rub off on him, isn’t he?

“What did you do?” Alex looks down at the table in Henry’s hotel room, which is currently decorated with two bottles of champagne and a single chocolate cupcake, and then back at Henry, grinning. Henry clears his throat.

“It’s not a proper birthday without cake, is it?” He barely finishes his sentence before Alex’s arms are draped over his neck and he’s pressing Henry into another kiss that warms his bones.

“You’re cute,” he tells him, and kisses him again. Henry can feel himself beginning to dissolve. “I also want you note that I thought of, like, four different ‘blow out the candle’ jokes and didn’t use any of them.”

“Noted. Though you undermine your point by telling me.”

“I wanted to give you an opportunity to appreciate my personal growth. I think I’ve shown a lot of restraint.”

“Very admirable,” he replies, nodding indulgently as he slides his hands into the dip of Alex’s hips. Then he pulls him close and whispers dangerously into his ear, “I rather like seeing you restrained.”

There are very few words after that. Just kissing punctuated by glasses of champagne and various articles of clothing hitting the floor. For once, everything is blissfully unhurried. Every available brain cell is now devoted to finding more creative applications for buttercream frosting, all of which prove to be a rousing success. Less so are a series of somewhat panicked Google searches to figure out how to undo Alex’s Boy Scout knots-- “They only taught us how to tie them, not how to untie them!”--and how to get chocolate out of a much-abused silk necktie. He’ll be sure to have this bit cut from his biopic.

Their crisis is barely resolved when Alex’s hands are on him again, a thigh between his, gently guiding Henry’s face back with a warm and sleepy smile. The boy is insatiable. Henry has told him as much, to which he mumbles, “Something-something glass houses.”

“Give me five more minutes, love,” Henry chuckles into his mouth. Alex pulls away and rests their foreheads together, mysteriously looking at him with something other than his usual impish expression. His deep brown eyes look unsure. Almost, dare he say it, shy?

Oh God. Oh fuck.

“Actually I, uh, wanted to just kiss you for a while.” 

Henry’s soul leaves his body.

Honestly, all so fucking magical that he wants to scream. He could say that about every meeting with Alex. For a few hours a month, Henry is worshipped by someone who knows him and, most shockingly, wants more. It makes his head spin, though that may also be the champagne and the post-orgasmic coma he’s slowly slipping into. He’d rather stay conscious as long as possible to memorize the sensation of Alex nuzzling into his neck and the soft rise and fall of his back, and he can already hear that god damned Steven Tyler wailing inside his head. But eventually, he succumbs. The passing of another year is no longer quite so troubling.

What’s most disconcerting about this whole business is that Henry has a boyfriend now.

Except he doesn’t.

He’s merely entered into an exclusive arrangement with an achingly-sweet boy where they phone and message each other constantly, vent about their families and their personal tribulations, and then meet up to kiss and cuddle and spend hours ruining the bedsheets. The fundamental difference here is that when Alex looks into his eyes, Henry has to stop himself from telling him everything. When he looks back, something real and beautiful is growing there, giving him the exact kind of hope that he intended to avoid. His heart is full, but that means it’s tired and heavy, too. A red fruit sagging on the branch, teetering on the brink of overripe and useless.

_He’s not your boyfriend._

He’s always wanted one, a proper boyfriend. It wouldn’t even have to be someone he could introduce to his family and kiss on a street corner. He’s never been _that_ optimistic. Just an end to any charades between them. No unspoken boundaries. No tap dancing around the obvious signs and implications of everything they’ve said and done. Just this, with all its rough edges and complications, but when they hang up for the night, Henry hears _I love you_ echo through the speaker. What he wants, what he _needs_ , is the knowledge that no matter how many times he’s forced to withdraw from the comfort and safety of Alex’s arms, they will still be open and waiting for him to return.

It’s in the moments that these thoughts seize him the hardest that he withdraws; when the exquisite pain and pleasure of Alex Claremont-Diaz becomes too much, or whenever he is reminded that, with the exception of Beatrice, he has no family he can trust or rely upon. These moods annoy the hell out of him and he doesn’t care to subject Alex to them, so he carefully tucks himself away until he can be his proper self. Alex seems to understand and doesn’t take it personally, though that doesn’t stop Henry from feeling guilty about it.

But then Alex does that _thing_ , pushing and prodding at all the right places to massage the truth out of him, and before Henry knows it, it’s been four hours and Alex now knows the intimate details of his life. Alex spills his own worries and troubled histories, and Henry doesn’t feel any heavier for it. In fact, he comes away from it all feeling lighter, as if he might actually get some decent sleep tonight. Or would, if it weren’t already such an ungodly hour.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

~~*~~

“Do you and Alex ever do things like this?” Bea asks unprompted, nodding to the laptop in front of them on her bed as another episode of _The Office_ buffers. “Or is it just...you know.”

“Sometimes,” he replies, shifting uncomfortably. “We don’t usually have much time to spare, so we have to cut to the chase.” She purses her lips.

“So that’s all you do?” There was no need for her to sound so disappointed on his behalf.

“No.” Admittedly, there was no need for him to be so curt, either. “We talk almost constantly.”

“During or...?”

“Well, erm, yes, but--” He shakes his head, raising a hand to stop himself from elaborating. “--let’s not.” Bea giggles softly. “ _Generally_ we talk every day, or email at least.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Oh, this and that.” He plays with the button on his shirt. “I told him about Dad. And that tabloid rubbish. I’m sorry,” he adds quickly. “I should have asked first.” She shrugs.

“Better he hear the truth from you than rumors from the _Mail_. Honestly, I’m glad you have someone you can talk to about these things besides Pez and I. I’m sure there are some things you can’t share with either of us. Or won’t for the sake of our delicate sensibilities,” she says with a wry smile. It’s true, and he knows it’s not a judgement but merely a statement of fact. It still makes him feel like a bit of a tosser for keeping things from her. He just nods because he can’t think of a better reply.

“He’s actually a great listener, provided you can get him to shut up first. He really wanted to know what was wrong, and once he got me started, it all came out like word vomit.” Bea smiles but wrinkles her nose. “I probably said all kinds of things I shouldn’t have. Forget politics; he should become a CIA interrogator.”

“Your therapist must be thrilled about that development.”

“I haven’t told her.”

“You haven’t?”

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to hear someone pick it apart or remind me what an awful idea it is, as if I’m unaware. The more people know about us, the more it starts to feel like it isn’t mine, and I need something that’s just mine for as long as I can have it.”

“I understand, love,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “Tell me, do you trust him?”

It feels like a strange question at first. Trust Alex with what? His secrets? His heart? They’re the same thing, really. Wound together too tightly to ever untangle. It’s against his better judgement, but 

“Yes, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave your thoughts or some scenes you'd like to see in the comments!
> 
> And yes, sharp-eyed readers, I do like T-Swizzle.
> 
> Next chapter: Prepare to get supersonic.


	5. Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry gets flamboyant, uninhibited, and randy.

“Oh, dear,” Henry says, peering down into his empty shot glass. The club’s bass is thudding in his ears. They’ve barely arrived and he already feels a bit drunk. “What’s in these? Vodka?”

“Yep,” Nora confirms, to which Bea and Pez break out into fits of giggles, the bloody traitors. 

“What?” Alex says.

“Oh, I haven’t had vodka since uni. It tends to make me, erm. Well--”

“Flamboyant? Uninhibited? _Randy_?” He would find it easier to be annoyed by Pez’s remarks had he not so graciously served as Henry’s nanny for so many Saturday night escapades. He thinks, anyways. It’s all a bit fuzzy. Not that Henry wouldn’t have done the same for him, except that Pez could outdrink an entire football team and still remain vertical. 

“Fun?”

“ _Excuse_ you. I am loads of fun. I am a _delight.”_

Alex orders another round of these radioactive vodka concoctions, ostensibly because now he wants to see what all the fuss is about. If he winds up groping him in the booth, it will not be Henry’s fault.

Their friends jump right into it. Pez is incapable of shame and Bea actually does this in the daylight hours, so of course they blow the roof off. By the time Henry would be drunk enough to agree to sing, they would need to have his stomach pumped, but that’s alright. He’s feeling loose and silly and maybe even a little crazy just sitting here, soaking in the sights and sounds of a night with people who know him. It takes him back to New Years, except that this evening isn’t so fraught with nerves. He’s vaguely aware of Alex staring at him despite the insanity on stage, and he likes it.

He always has. Staring at Henry has been a time-honored tradition since they met, and it’s always a little different each time. The fresh-faced curiosity of the Olympics. The childish glowering of Phillip’s wedding. The fun, easy observation of New Years. The sexually-charged animosity of the D.C. dinner. No matter the circumstances, Alex is all heat and want. Only the color of it changes. These days, Henry is allowed to revel in it, even preen a little, and simmer in the excitement of what might come next. And he is desperate to find out what’s next, because Alex’s stare has turned to leering and it’s making Henry’s imagination run amok. Not that it ever needed much help with that.

Unlike previous iterations of Henry, he feels bold enough to turn and stare back. A challenge. _Oh really?_ says the quirk of Henry’s eyebrow. _And just what do you intend to do about it?_

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the atmosphere, but Henry is allowing himself a long, slow sip of Alex. He really is devastatingly pretty in every sense of the word. That swaggering smirk and those long eyelashes have ruined Henry for anyone else, which is cruel and unfair. Almost as cruel and unfair as the succinct but very vivid suggestion that just popped up in his text messages. His heart surges with manic fluttering, like a hummingbird on a caffeine drip, as Alex elaborates with a long, illustrative swig from his beer.

Henry disapparates and reappears in the loo, a quiet part of his brain reminding him that drunken hookups in public toilet stalls were supposed to remain an artefact of his university days. But Alex, who at this point must be single-handedly putting his dry cleaner’s children through college, is kneeling in front of him on the grimy linoleum with a deeply filthy expression, and Henry decides he doesn’t care.

Tonight is a night for not giving a fuck, it seems. Alex can achieve anything he sets his mouth to. It’s freeing, being coaxed and cajoled, hearing _please please please_ instead of _don’t_. He loves the sound of it so much that he will stall beyond the point that he’s already made up his mind. And really, how could he deny such an enthusiastic supplicant? There is nothing he could deny Alex, anyways. Well, perhaps there is, but that’s neither here nor there.

Fashionably late as ever, Alex hops on stage and commandeers the microphone from June as her song fades and the room is overcome with a riot of applause. He’s wearing the exact sort of smile he reserves for when he’s about to do something that will get himself and everyone involved in trouble. His evil genius smile. Then the song starts, and Henry is instantly ashamed to recognize a One Direction song blasting through the speakers. The girls shriek and giggle with malicious delight. It gets worse, because he knows the song, too. And it gets even _worse,_ because the song is _They Don’t Know About Us._

And just how the fuck does one respond to that?

No, really. He’s asking. Because he doesn’t know whether to scream from the Dali-level surrealism playing out in front of him or throw himself at the feet of Not-Harry Styles in the middle of his upsettingly spot-on performance. What _is_ his life, anyways?

But an orgasm and at least five of those little vodka thingies have buffed out the sharp edges in Henry’s mind, turning everything into a warm, jovial haze, so he laughs and claps and tries not to faint when their eyes meet. He prays he’ll remember this.

Which coincidentally is how Henry finds himself on stage just minutes later, doing everything in his power to make Freddie Mercury roll over in his grave. The momentum is shoving him further and further into blissful chaos, the exact sort of behavior normally confined to _American Pie_ films and nightly news specials about wayward teenagers designed specifically to terrify your mum. He’s spinning and they’re spinning and the room is spinning and they’re screaming and laughing and his hair is wet now for some reason and fucking hell he’s never had this much fun.

Alex is dancing and improvising backup vocals for Pez’s next number when June slides into the booth beside him with a broad, sloppy grin. Or at least, he thinks it’s June. Yes, definitely June, but there are occasionally two of her. A terrifying prospect. Like a lawful evil incarnation of the Olsen twins.

“I gotta--I gotta tell you,” she shouts over the din, tapping him repeatedly on the arm. “You two are fucking precious.” Henry chuckles and blushes, though it’s likely not visible between his ongoing flush and the erratic lighting. She slumps against him and sighs, watching his two favorite idiots peacocking for an adoring audience. “Really. I mean it. I fucking love you guys.”

“Me, too.” He smiles with enthusiasm to match. She steals his half-empty water and chugs it without comment before picking up where she left off.

“Like, you’re so good for him. You’re-- _hiccup_ \--probably too good for him, but he’s so fucking happy that I don’t give a shit. He’s different,” she muses. “Functional. I mean, he was functional before, but now it’s not, like, in a way that’s gonna run him into the ground. Like a _person_ , you know?”

He doesn’t, exactly. He looks at her curiously, then at Alex, who is really operating at peak-Alex right now. Henry feels like he’s relied so heavily on him that it’s hard to imagine making even a dent. She continues:

“I figure you knew what you were in for once you were picking white fondant out of your ears, so no take-backsies.”

“No _what_ now?” 

She straightens herself up and turns to face him, doing her very best impression of a serious person while also struggling to get the words out unmarred. Her hair is sticking to her forehead, the strobing LED’s illuminating the sheen of sweat like that Gatorade commercial. She points a stern finger at him.

“Now, I’m sure he’s got you fooled into thinking that he’s fucking Superman and can handle anything--”

“--Deadpool is probably a more apt comparison--”

“--but deep down he’s kind of a delicate flower. He’s like a dog.” Henry observes him howling and humping the microphone stand. “He’d give you everything if you let him.” The truth and fondness in her voice almost hurts to listen to.

It’s a lot to take in, and any response he could drum up feels woefully inadequate. He can’t spare the mental RAM to assemble something coherent. Instead, he smiles indulgently back at her.

“Is this you giving me your blessing?” She rolls her eyes.

“Like I could keep him away from you even if I wanted to. But yeah.” She leans in and plants a wet kiss on his cheek. “I am.”

He can’t recall if they were booted from the club or left of their own accord. Nor can he recall when they got into the limo or how long he’s been sitting on Alex’s lap, which ranks among his top three places to be. After an adventure such as this, he’s ready to retire to their suite and snog until they both pass out cold.

There’s a comforting familiarity to it. No matter where on the planet he’s been dragged off to this time, Alex is with him, holding him steady. An anchor. A home.

Eventually, and no thanks to their compatriots, they make it back and stumble into their room. Alex is glowing, all that excess energy coming out as light and heat and it makes Henry feel lightheaded. Though that could be the oxygen deprivation that comes with being crushed into the mattress by his bare chest. In times such as these, Henry wonders why they bother with clothes at all. 

He’s aware that he has been foolish and ridiculous tonight in a way that is likely going to add a heaping teaspoon of embarrassment to his hangover tomorrow. It will no doubt be brutal, but it is a small price to pay for a night of forgetting everything that normally holds him back, which he recognizes is imprudent. The fault can’t entirely be placed on him. One of Alex’s mutant powers is making Henry’s IQ drop by ten points every time he’s near. Despite loads of evidence from the great minds of history, lush accounts from poets and fellow princes, it’s not until Henry himself finally falls that he understands how stupid love can make you. And that’s perfectly fine. He wasn’t using his brain for actually _ruling_ , so there’s no better purpose he can think of than loving Alex.

“Hey. I’m listening. For real.”

Alright, perhaps it hasn’t completely rid Henry of his inhibitions. Alex isn’t a miracle worker. He wracks his brain for a way to tell him what he wants. The words aren’t coming to him and Alex is waiting. Words are failing him, so he elects to let his body do the talking. It takes only a moment of his thighs squeezing tightly around him that Alex pulls away with a sudden look of recognition, and Henry’s heart skips a beat.

“You sure?”

Yes.

No.

Is he sure he wants it? _God_ , yes. The wait has been killing him.

Is he sure he _should_? About fifty-fifty. Sixty-forty, maybe. This would be easier if they weren’t naked right now.

“I know we haven’t, but, er. I have before, so, I can show you.” Inarticulate at the worst possible time. But Alex lightens things with his patented smirk and strokes Henry’s jaw.

“But you want me to?”

They’ve tip-toed around it for a long time--or at least Henry has-- but there are...implications that come with this. An understanding that it is not on the same level as their normal antics. A major break in the barrier between them. Not me-and-you, but _us._

“Yes. Absolutely.”

They break out the lube, and Christ, he’s good at this. It’s infuriating. Did he learn this somewhere, or are his instincts really that good? Is he self-taught? What the hell are they teaching them at Georgetown, anyways? Isn’t it Jesuit? Henry wonders if it’s somehow worse that a potential future head of the Church of England is about to be fucked by a Catholic. He’ll have to ask the Bishop.

It’s fun, because it always is, but this is different. Alex is so sweet and so attentive and so determined to give him everything he wants that he may die purely from the intensity of it all. Perhaps it’s for the best that they are still tipsy, because every nerve and synapse is an absolute mess right now, and he couldn’t imagine what this would be like if there wasn’t anything dulling his senses. Hopefully the walls have been well- soundproofed.

Henry bites his lip hard enough to draw blood because he can feel the words building in his throat and is determined to catch them before they can escape. He knows he’s bitten off much more of Alex than he can chew, but that ship has sailed and this is just so damn _good_ that he might find a way to make peace with such a pyrrhic end. 

_“Henry--”_

And that’s it. The stars in Henry’s eyes suddenly burst and his vision whites-out completely. He hovers there, blind and tense and distinctly _not_ silent, for long enough that he wonders if he’s ever going to come down from it. He does, eventually, just in time to behold Alex’s own glorious--and loud--end. He’s still shaking and panting like a racehorse for some time afterwards, which is the only way Henry knows that Alex isn’t dead. That, and the soft kisses he plants along Henry’s jaw before struggling to extract himself from the prince’s grasp. Were it not for the mess that needs attending to, he would be inclined to keep him there by force. He loves to wrestle until Alex has him pinned down onto the bed, but they both know that Henry is letting him win.

Everything is different now. 

That night, as they drift off to sleep, it’s fantastic. It’s bone-deep contentment and warmth and softness.

In the morning, however, it’s grey and distant and raw.

Predictably, the hangover is not helping matters. That’s not really it, though. What really darkens Henry’s mood is the duality of his happiness. He cannot simply wake up and ride that felicitous wave through the day. No, there is always a price. Every good thing in his life comes at a cost, and he’s bracing himself for when the universe comes to collect. 

So he waits, because one way or another, it always does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What up, kiddos! Thanks so much for reading. 
> 
> If you like this story, smash that kudos button and leave your delighted shrieking or angry ramblings in the comments so I can print them out and tape them on the ceiling above my bed.
> 
> Credit to @merlins_tits for giving me a wonderful, awful idea.
> 
> Next chapter: Wimbledon and hotel bars


	6. From Wimbledon With Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry nearly ruins the carpet.

Henry rises stiffly and exits the royal box with the grace of a monarch and the gusto of one who is very ready to, as Alex would put it, “fuck shit up.” He knows Alex is similarly outraged by his brother’s insipid prattling on about wives and social circles and Pez. His eyes follow discreetly. Henry’s knuckles are turning white as he stares into a potted plant, waiting and praying for Alex to follow soon. He does, thankfully, and Henry leads him away, his self-control slipping with alarming speed.

Anger is a feeling that Henry is very well acquainted with. He’s mastered all its quiet forms: frustration, sulking, irritation, resentment, self-isolation, and God only knows what else. The key ingredient usually missing from these incidents is motivation, or more specifically, courage. His double life has always been something laced with fear, with fleeting glances over the shoulder and double checking the locks. Couldn’t spend a few hours not being miserable, could we? Wouldn’t want to cause a  _ fuss _ . 

He’s sick of holding his breath to maintain the stillness of the water, but he’s not quite strong enough to make waves yet. So when he leaves them this time, it’s not to hide. It’s to object. To be pointedly absent. The prince isn’t where he’s supposed to be. And why? Oh, because he’s too busy fucking his brown American boyfriend to give a toss about them, or this tournament, or anyone else, for that matter. It’s a small thing, really. A crumb of defiance, barely a whisper of a  _ fuck you _ . But it’s a start, and Alex is the best enabler he could have asked for.

It’s that omnipresent sense of adventure that does it. Adventure is, after all, just chasing after danger for the fun of it. No one embraces danger quite as passionately as Alex Claremont-Diaz. A trailblazer extraordinaire, gleefully hacking away at the underbrush of bullshit. 

“Just so we’re clear,” Alex says. “I’m about to have sex with you in this storage closet to spite your family. Like, that’s what’s happening?”

“Right.”

“Awesome. Fuckin’ love doing things out of spite.”

Good  _ God _ , he loves this boy. 

It’s the sort of sex that leaves one feeling exhilarated afterwards, like you could charge screaming into battle, spear in hand, ready to plunder cities and salt fields. But Henry is neither drunk nor insane enough to put that energy to productive use, so he drags Alex even further away from where they’re supposed to be right now. That’s just as well, because he would vastly prefer to be sprawled out on whatever horizontal surface that will have them than watch yet another tennis match. He can spend the day staring at balls for free and from the comfort of his own room, thank you.

The first go-round of the day was built for a singular purpose: to work through the tension and the bitter thoughts swirling about in his head to leave him with that familiar euphoric ache of well-used muscles. It’s likely akin to the feeling from yoga that Bea is always going on about when she tries to convince him to join her. Which will never happen, because he cannot possibly maintain any semblance of dignity when sliding around like Tonya Harding, and because a cool-down on his mattress is unquestionably superior to a sweaty mat. 

This time, it’s pure, unadulterated need. It’s been barely a few hours, and if he doesn’t have Alex on him  _ right now _ , he’s going to die. That’s certainly what he’s babbling about as Alex teases him to the brink of insanity, grinning wickedly all the while. Smug git.

In the thick fog between waking and sleep, his fingertips splayed out over Alex’s chest, he takes note of the fact that Alex is studying him again. Henry almost says something, but his bones are made of jelly and his voice is hoarse and uncooperative from the day’s activities. His last thought before slipping under is whether they’re no longer bothering to pretend that this isn’t real.

* * *

Life goes on much as it usually does, though DNC preparations have made their communications more trivial and sporadic. Henry is doing his best to be a good sport about it and to let his phone leave his hand on occasion. It’s grey and dreary at home, and the promise of May flowers is doing nothing for him. It’s been barely any time at all before a Google alert pops up on his phone to inform him that Rafael Luna has crossed over to The Dark Side. He frowns and wonders why he’s hearing this from CNN and not Alex himself. Luna means so much to him; a mentor, a friend, a source of inspiration, and--if Henry’s suspicions are correct, which they usually are--even more damning evidence of Alex’s taste for older men. 

He waits, because this is the exact sort of thing that would enrage Alex to the point of blowing up the phone of everyone he knows. The eerie silence is proof enough that things are worse than he imagined. Suddenly, Henry is harassing June to share her brother’s projected whereabouts, which she takes no issue with divulging.

He finds Alex at the hotel bar, head propped up with his elbow and having an in-depth telepathic conversation with several fingers of what is likely his second whiskey. Henry had the exact same discussion with a pint of Cherry Garcia just last week. 

Despite his forlorn appearance, Alex is as handsome as always. The dim lighting makes him look rough and mysterious, like he’s had a hell of a night, and Henry suspects he’s had several. When he approaches the bar, it’s nearly impossible not to sink a hand into the halo of curls and guide him into a kiss.

“You’re--what are you doing here?”

“You know, as a figurehead of one of the most powerful countries in the world, I do manage to keep abreast on international politics.”

That’s the smart answer, because of course he has been paying attention to international politics. But then a single eyebrow quirks with skepticism. Oh, fuck Henry’s self-censoring. Now is the time for the honest answer, the one that makes him blush. How is it that Alex’s tongue has seen every single inch of his body but  _ this _ is what makes Henry feel shy?

“I sent Pez home without me because I was worried,” he tells his drink. The fact that it makes Alex smile encourages him, and he smiles back.

It’s a very strange reversal. How often has Alex sat beside him like this, in person or in spirit, and drawn out the poison. He’s grateful for it, but he’s grateful for this too, even if there’s little more he can do than be a distraction. And he’s more than happy to squeeze Alex tightly to his chest and try very hard not to leave bruises in his wake.

Henry knows he doesn’t especially want to talk about it. Proactivity is more his forte. Better to drown in something that makes him feel good than wallow in something that he cannot change. It’s important, though. The stuff is toxic if allowed to linger, and the damage only gets worse with time. The detox isn’t pleasant either, but Henry is prepared to kiss it all away because he needs him.

Normally when they wake up together, it means a morning of sour kisses and smooth caresses and dark curls tickling his nose and Alex’s hard-on pressing insistently against his hip. This morning, it’s a flurry of curses both angry and panicked while something attempts to beat the door down. A cave troll perhaps, he muses, still mostly asleep. Then it registers what’s happening, and before he knows it, Henry is trying to wiggle into Alex’s pants, which are a bit loose on him, if he’s being honest. Unlike a Weeble, he wobbles and then promptly falls down and out of the closet. He winces and wonders if he should have added jazz hands and a  _ ta-da! _ to his comically on-the-nose entrance.

Zahra’s rampage is brought to a standstill as she tries to process the scene in front of her. No one is safe yet, of course. It should be back in a moment.

“Oh my  _ God, _ did I do this? I never thought...when I set it up...oh my  _ God _ .”

“I think, perhaps, if it helps. It was. Er. Rather inevitable. At least for me.”  _ Shut up shut up shut up. _ He wants to snatch the words out of the air and shove them back down his throat before he makes the situation even more humiliating than it already is. “So you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“Can I assume I don’t have to make you sign an NDA?”

It always comes back to paperwork, doesn’t it? Henry desperately wishes that that was the first time he had woken up naked in someone else’s bed and was immediately thrown into a panic about the fucking  _ paperwork. _ Or even that it was a single-digit number. But no, it’s another one of  _ those _ mornings, except with the added excitement of having his knob out in front of a woman who he prays has had the rabies jab.

There is a frightening probability that Henry is going to be sick all over this ugly carpet. If he doesn’t, then he will set to work burrowing through the floor and into the center of the earth, where Zahra is presumably from. 

“Seriously?” she hisses, utterly livid, her eyes burning with homicidal rage. “You’re literally putting your dick in  _ the leader of a foreign state _ , who is a  _ man _ , at the  _ biggest political event before the election _ , in a hotel full of  _ reporters _ , in a city full of  _ cameras _ , in a race close enough to fucking hinge on some bullshit like this, like a manifestation of my  _ stress dreams _ , and you’re asking me not to tell the president about it?”

Well, at least Henry can say that he and Zahra have something in common. He just never expected it to be their stress dreams. These occurrences are typically the moment that his latest gentleman caller realizes that this is all more trouble than it’s worth and that he would rather find someone else to sleep with who doesn’t come with a paper trail. It’s all too much.

“Would it make any difference at all if I told you not to see him again?”

Henry’s heart drops into this stomach. Alex is looking at him, but he doesn’t think he can meet his eyes.

“No.”

The door slams shut, and Henry is sure the relentless pounding in his chest is audible in the now nauseatingly silent room. He tries to reimagine this as a teenage misadventure like in all those films he used to watch. Sneaking a boy into your room at night and helping him escape out the window before your mum walks in. That’s what it feels like. There’s something unbearably infantilizing about his life. So many rules. So much scrutiny. So. Much. Shame. He’s nearly a quarter-century old, and he’s still being scolded for sleeping with his boyfriend as if he were still sixteen. The circumstances are indeed….not ideal, but the point remains. This would have happened if she’d barged into a remote cabin in the forest, though she would not be yelling at a pitch that only dogs can hear.

Alex turns to him, and he can see the hamster wheels running double-time in his brain. As if Henry wasn’t terrified enough as it is. He wishes he had refilled that Xanax prescription when he had the chance. Alex crosses over to where he’s sitting on the bed, and silently wraps his arms around Henry’s shoulders. A heavy, painful breath escapes Henry’s throat as he reminds himself that in addition to not vomiting, he is not going to cry. Instead, he rests his forehead on Alex’s shoulder and just listens to him breathe, feeling the gooseflesh rippling up his arms as Alex gently cards fingertips through Henry’s hair.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Don’t worry, it’s gonna be alright.” 

He pulls back to look at Henry, who knows what his face must look like right now and would really rather go back to hiding in the crook of his neck. He brushes a finger over Henry’s chin and tips it upward.

“Look at me.” He tears his eyes away from that spot on the carpet, where Alex is waiting for him with a faint smile. “It’s gonna be fine, okay? I’ll handle it.” Henry inhales deeply and nods. “Zahra freaks the fuck out about everything. Remind me to tell you what she did after I got caught streaking at a party my sophomore year.”

Henry snorts despite himself. “I have trouble believing that was the first time that’s happened.”

“First time I got caught on camera,” he replies with a wink. “I know it’s pointless to tell you not to worry, but I’m gonna say it anyways: Don’t.” Alex is correct. It’s useless to argue. “Now--” Alex kisses him chastely on the mouth. “--I need to go shower because I smell like jizz and a mid-grade panic attack and Zahra is going to murder me and replace me with a body double if I don’t.”

“Right. Er. I should be going then.” He stands and moves to collect his clothes, but Alex intercepts and tugs him by the waist into another, deeper kiss that makes Henry sigh.

“Text me, okay?” he murmurs, resting their foreheads together. “And let me know when you get home.” 

“I will.”

Alex is going to have to tell his mother about them. Henry shudders. Consciously, he knows that she will be very decent about the first bit. It’s not  _ his _ family, who would have a collective aneurysm if he so much as dared confirm their suspicions, but it would be a lie to say that it doesn’t color his feelings. No, as usual, the problem is Henry. He is a living, breathing complication. Too much.

Yet, Alex stood by him. God only knows why. There are days though, where Henry feels certain that it’s no longer wishful thinking on his part. It’s dangerous. The one thing he wants most of all from Alex is the one thing he should not take. It occurs to Henry that pouring out his heart in so many dreadfully sentimental emails is just a touch counterproductive in this matter. Nevertheless, he is nagged by the feeling that Alex could offer him his heart, and would do so without thinking it through, and Henry wouldn’t be strong enough to refuse, because he isn’t. He’s weak and spineless. He thinks his little rebellions mean something, but they’re delusions. Fantasies that let him believe he could stand up for himself when he knows well enough that when push comes to shove, he will bow his head and obey. 

If Bea were here, she would tell him that he’s spiraling, and she wouldn’t be wrong. Her eye would twitch and her face flatten, a subtle hint that she’s trying very hard not to grab him by the shoulders and quite literally shake some sense into him, and then she would gently, lovingly explain why he’s being daft. He stares out the window at the Atlantic roiling below him and tries to climb out of this emotional quicksand. Half-heartedly, but he tries. Alex doesn’t do anything by halves. “Half-assing” is the phrase, he recalls. A decidedly American expression if there ever was one. Alex most certainly whole-asses everything he does, even the truly asinine things, and is always better for it. So Henry rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, pulls out his phone, and loads up another holiday to Biscuit Land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings guys, gals, and nb pals!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! We've only got a couple chapters left, and I'm pretty jazzed to show them to you.
> 
> As always, thank you for your feedback. If you like what you're seeing, please leave keyboard smashes in the comments. They give me life.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @your-void-senpai . Come hang out. Tell me your tragic backstory.
> 
> Next chapter: Dawson had a creek, Alex has a lake.


	7. Summer of 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry fails. Again.

So things with Alex and the president went well. Somewhat.

He spared Henry the most excruciating details of their meeting, which at any other time would have him in a fit of hysterical laughter. The outcome immediately snuffs that out, leaving in its place the dull ache of guilt for having cost Alex his job. It’s terrible enough that he’s lost Luna in nearly every conceivable way, but now Alex’s career has been kneecapped because Henry is a silly romantic who forgot that Facetime exists.

His emails to Henry read like the internal monologue of a neglected labrador. Chasing his tail and gnawing at the furniture, all pent up energy and purposelessness. It pains him to see someone as ambitious as Alex in such a state. The feeling has personally chipped away at Henry’s sanity for years, and he’s not half as driven as Alex.

Offering him an out seems like the gentlemanly thing to do. A political career is what Alex has always wanted, what he has pushed himself to his limits to achieve. And now it’s in jeopardy, which Henry knew would happen but hoped would sort itself out. It would have been out of character for Alex to abruptly end things after the incident at the DNC, especially in front of Zahra, but he has had nothing but time to mull this over. To prioritize. He selfishly hopes that he will refuse, though it would be easier in the long run. 

Alex dismisses it completely. It’s really rather shocking how quickly he drops the subject to indulge Henry in even more starry-eyed musings about Historical Gays. This ongoing discussion between them has always been laced with heavy subtext, but now it’s just text. If Henry’s hopelessly embarrassing emails back haven’t made that clear, then there is nothing more he could possibly do.

And now he’s been invited on holiday. A real holiday. With Alex. To his summer home. Christ.

Henry is positively vibrating. A week away from prying eyes to rest and make good on the promises they’ve only been able to discuss over text. Alex’s pitch paints a beautiful picture, and Henry was prepared to rearrange the cosmos to make it come to fruition. Now he’s here, standing in the middle of the airport with his arms around Alex and trying to look like a mate coming for a visit instead of a man finally home from deployment. 

The car ride is long, but with the terrain and the company, it feels like being inside a very long car advert. Alex’s hand in his as they drive, Nora’s playlist rendering him partially deaf, sunshine and unfaltering grins all around, each element so ordinary and unremarkable to any average person. But this feels far from it. The easy euphoria becomes otherworldly. And it is, because it is of another world. A real one. Just not Henry’s.

He tries not to be awkward when Alex’s father spots him. It’s easier said than done. “Meeting the parents” is a concept decidedly outside his frame of reference, even if Oscar doesn’t know about them. It won’t be long before the cat’s out of the bag anyways, so he’s tempted to say to hell with it all so he can kiss Alex in the morning and pretend they do it every day.

If anyone has noticed his shameless admiration of Alex’s body, they’ve been kind enough not to mention it. Henry is trying to be good. He really is. It’s just that Alex is making it completely impossible, and if they weren’t currently in a place where swim trunks are considered formal wear, the prince might almost suspect foul play. Realistically, Alex can’t control the way his clothes cling to his arse when wet. Nor can he help the fact that being shirtless in the sun nearly every day makes Henry want to cool that beautiful bronze skin with his tongue. And he smiles so much now. Everything that has been burdening Alex these last weeks seems to have disappeared. Most of these smiles are easy and given away without a second thought. The others are quieter and curiously intense and meant only for Henry. It’s difficult to look at them too long, or he worries he’ll go blind. The moral of this story is that Henry...He’s really having a time of it this week, alright? Fuck off.

* * *

“...which brings me to my next question,” Nora says, listing to one side a little. They’ve landed on the back porch after Henry took a bit too much sun before lunch. “The new  _ Emma _ : Horniest Austen adaptation ever made?”

This is the part where Henry would have spat out his drink if Alex wasn’t already getting him another. There has been a running BBC vs. Keira Knightley  _ Pride and Prejudice _ debate amongst the three of them for some time, and now Austen has become a favorite topic of conversation. Nora and June are a house divided, as Nora prefers the brevity of the latter and June prefers the unerring inclusion of every trivial detail from the book that the former provides. He can appreciate both, but the fact of the matter is that the new film is far more romantic and Colin Firth’s Darcy does nothing for him. Which is good, he supposes, because Alex would otherwise accuse him of narcissism.

“Without a doubt,” he replies with a laugh. “How is it possible that someone can make holding hands look so...I dunno...”

“Dirty?” Nora offers. “No idea. Witchcraft, probably.”

June smirks, her eyes full of mischief. “I’ll dig out the crystals.”

Their bond is so peculiar to him. It’s the emotional equivalent of two bonobos grooming each other. Even Alex doesn’t appear to understand it, and maybe they don’t either. But he’s had enough rum to strongly consider a life of piracy, so instead of trying to puzzle it out, he grins and leans back into the wicker sofa overlooking the lake. He glances through the window into the kitchen, wondering if Alex has decided to distill another batch of rum while he’s at it.  _ It’s hardly been ten minutes _ , he scolds himself. 

Alex returns to the porch from the kitchen with two tall peach daiquiris that taste like summer and are more insidious than skin cancer, and at this rate Henry isn’t sure which of the two will get to him first. Alex hands him one and slides innocently back into his reserved spot beside the prince, taking up twice as much space as someone his size should. The porch now hosts a party of five: the girls, Henry, Alex, and his ego.

“What did I miss?”

“My refill,” June says, mildly annoyed and wiggling her empty glass pointedly at him.

“Do I look like your waiter?”

“If I say yes, will you bring me another one?”

“No.”

“Ungrateful brat. You can hold your own hair back tonight.”

“Nah, I’ve got someone else to do that for me now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Henry sighs. 

He stands very carefully, placing a hand on Alex’s shoulder as he tries to get his sea legs back, and dips into the kitchen to take the whole pitcher. Oscar is absorbed in massaging a violent blend of spices into what Henry estimates is about a third of a pig. Another bacchanalian feast is in his future, it appears. He hopes Alex isn’t too attached to Henry’s abs, because he’s going to be leaving Texas with a few more kilos to remember this by.

He pulls his hand away from the blender to find it very sticky, and snatches up a damp tea towel to remedy the situation. Oscar is watching him with amusement from the corner of his vision.

“How’s Texas treating you?” he asks. Henry smiles back and looks down again, idly batting a spent lime out of the way. Alex’s father has given him every reason not to feel shy, and yet. He clears his throat.

“It’s brilliant. I wasn’t sure what to expect. The way Alex describes it, you would think it was paradise.” Oscar chuckles good-naturedly. “I think he may be right.”

“Everyone needs a place to get away from the world. I wish I could give him his real home, but this’ll do in a pinch.” 

He pats the meat affectionately, giving it a once-over before setting it on a metal pan and making for the sink. It’s not just the barbecue; Henry realizes that he has only watched someone cook on telly, and never with this much personal care. How does one get this far in life before reaching such a banal first?

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he adds. “But I wasn’t sure what to expect either when Alex asked me if you could be his plus-one.”

“What, worried I’m too posh for Texas?” Oscar snorts and wipes his hands on his trousers.

“Maybe. I think watching you trying to eat ribs is what finally won me over.” A rather embarrassing affair, as Henry remembers it, until he learned that the mess was an unavoidable part of the experience. “And there’s Alex...” He looks fondly out the window at the miscreants littering his otherwise lovely porch. 

“Are we that obvious?”

“For most people? Eh,” he shrugs. “But for his father, Stevie Wonder could have put it together.” Henry blushes furiously and sighs. 

“Fantastic.”

“He didn’t tell me, FYI. Not until I pointed it out myself. I think he wanted to let you have that.” Of course he would. Of all the things he has worried would drive Alex away, shame is not one of them. Henry is more grateful for it than he could imagine.

“He’s very considerate in that way.” Oscar gives him a sad smile, just as neat and handsome under his graying third-day scruff as the grin he first greeted them with. Henry’s heart is abruptly stricken with a small taste of grief, the kind that haunts his steps no matter where he goes. This one isn’t quite so bitter. There is an uglier part of Henry, one he doesn’t like to acknowledge, that envies Alex for his good fortune. He shoves that feeling back into the ballroom and bolts the door shut.

“This place is our oasis.” A firm hand grips the granite countertop, gazing around the room. “It’s not enough to cancel out all the shitty things we deal with for the other fifty-one weeks out of the year, but it keeps you sane. Reminds you that there’s a whole lot of good waiting for you on the other side of it. It could be yours too, if you want.”

Henry blinks, at a complete loss for words. He expected there would be a lot more small talk about football before they ended up in a place like this, but here they are. Like many other things spoken by a Diaz, he knows it’s intended to be reassuring. As kind as it is, Henry finds that it only adds to the cacophony constantly whirling inside his head. A sitting of Parliament doesn’t have this many voices all calling out at once.

One of the girls shouts from the porch, “Hey, HRH! I’m dying of thirst out here!”

“Yeah! Come serve the peasants or your head’s going in the basket!”

“I should go before they light the torches.”

Oscar chuckles at that and claps him on the back before departing for the grill.

The daylight hours are rowdy and bursting with giddy foolishness. It’s what Henry imagines American summer camps are like, just with more liquor and fewer practical jokes. Uninhibited, all-you-can-eat fun that never stops, only changes speed. Sailing and scrappy bouts of aquatic “chicken” alternate with cards and lazing on pool floats. Henry and Nora take turns trouncing the first siblings, who struggle with the intricacies of the phrase “poker face.”

The nights feel like they belong to him and Alex alone. They aren’t often alone, though that does nothing to deter Alex from sinking deeper into the arm around his shoulders or raising their clasped hands to kiss Henry’s knuckles. June might have made a gagging noise at one point, and Henry might have flashed her a middle finger, and Alex might have beamed back at him, looking proud and awed for having chipped away at his aristocrat manners. He really is a blight on the monarchy.

Each evening is somehow an improvement on the last. Sunset ushers bats from their roosts and cool breezes off the lake add wind chimes to the chorus of cicadas and Alex never leaves his side. Through the lingering fog of a drunken afternoon, he makes a silent wish that they could stay in this perfect little cul-de-sac of time forever.

Or in this bed, narrow and perilously close to the ceiling as it may be, letting Alex hold the reins for fear of knocking heads again.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” Alex’s voice is low, devious, and hypnotizing, and he knows it. He fumbles with the button of Henry’s swim trunks, still tipsy and uncoordinated from earlier, and breaks into a wry smile when they finally pop open. “Wow, looks like you have been, too.”

“Your fault, you insufferable tease.”

“Maybe. Everything’s bigger in Texas, y’know.” 

“I don’t see how a change in geography woul-- _ aahhh.”  _ Alex detaches from his pulse to shush him, a reminder that the room shares a wall with June and Nora’s. He swallows and Alex gets back to work cataloguing the topography of Henry’s body with his mouth.

“This is hardly fair,” croaks Henry. Alex is definitely doing this on purpose.

“Life ain’t fair, sweetheart. Now stop talking or you’re going to have to figure out how to beg really,  _ really _ quietly.”

Perhaps the boathouse wouldn’t have been such a terrible suggestion after all.

* * *

“H?” Alex whispers. “You awake?”

Statistically, yes. Laying wide-awake at one in the morning is the absolute worst, unless you have a pretty boy to drag you out of bed and into another illicit adventure. This one has everything: Danger (snakes and the alligators Alex insists don’t live this far west). Comedy (Alex nearly drowning after trying to one-up Henry, the stubborn prick). Nudity (self-explanatory). Romance (quite literally everything).

Things like this are supposed to only happen in films. And if one is so fortunate as to experience a moment like this, you certainly won’t be allowed more than one. There is a hard cap on a person’s lifetime allowance of magic. He can’t be swimming naked in this lake with Alex and kissing him under the full moon, because he’s already felt their fingers laced together as Alex makes love to him in a lush Hollywood hotel. And he couldn’t have had that either, because they’ve already spent his birthday licking spilled champagne off Henry’s chest. And kissing in Paris. And kissing in Alex’s bed. And kissing against the wall in the Red Room. And kissing in the Kennedy Garden.

This can’t be real life. Then again, what about his existence has ever resembled real life? 

An eerie stillness settles over everything. Even the crickets and the ripples in the water seem to settle down, like the silence of birds before a thunderstorm. And Alex is smiling like that again. It’s probably nothing.

It eventually becomes impossible to ignore. His stomach seizes as Alex describes their return to the lake house, sounding distinctly fantastical and non-hypothetical. “After the inauguration” and “next year.” 

“...And it won’t even matter if the neighbors see.”

“Well. It will matter, you know. It will always matter.”

A flicker of something complicated crosses his face, then disappears. 

Things have veered off well into forbidden territory. Any talk of the future, the future of  _ them _ that is, has been skillfully avoided up until now. It was easy to dodge because until recently, there wasn’t really a  _ them _ to have a future in the first place. Their relationship has a natural life cycle with a beginning and an end. It was supposed to go as long as momentum and circumstances allowed, and then eventually fizzle out when Alex found something, or someone, better to do. But now he knows that there is, in fact, a  _ them _ , and Alex has been devoting a lot of time thinking about it. Too much time. Alex speaks as if there isn’t an end, like he’s making plans...like he actually…

That’s when everything is suddenly brought into sharp focus, and all Alex’s talk of holidays and slowing down and  _ feeling _ shifts from uncomfortable to a knife between the ribs. A lump rises in Henry’s throat. Not only is Alex naive enough to think this all won’t go horribly wrong, but he may be invested enough that when it does, he would voluntarily go down with the ship. 

He would, wouldn’t he? It shouldn’t come as such a shock. That’s what everyone has been telling Henry, piece by piece, each in their own way, for months. Alex normally oscillates so rapidly between eerily perceptive and unbelievably thick, and it seems he’s been stuck on the second setting long enough that he would put his own future to the torch. 

And for what?  _ Henry? _

Pretending for a moment that this is really happening, and that Henry lets himself hear it, and that he gasps his own confession into Alex’s waiting mouth, nothing is solved. Alex thinks this is what he wants, but he has no clue what it actually means. He may--possibly, maybe, hypothetically--love Henry right now, but he doesn’t understand that when, not if, all hell breaks loose, his rugged American can-do attitude and his pretty face are not going to save them or his mother’s presidency. Even without meaning to, he will come to resent Henry for it, and then there really will be nothing left. All bow before His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of The Ashes.

For the second time, he wrestles himself away.

Now that they have a couple meters between them, it feels safe to look at Alex again. It’s actually worse. Alex looks confused, like something breaking in slow motion. That fleeting second between tripping and realizing you’re going to fall. His hands are still curled around a phantom Henry in the water. He should still be there, arms around the boy’s waist, pressed so snugly together that Alex can feel his manic heartbeat.

It’s wrong. It’s wrong to make Alex look like that and it’s even more wrong that Henry is the one doing it. The onus was never supposed to be on him. The only thing he can do--the only thing he knows how to do--is flee the scene of the crime.

He lays in his bunk for hours, terrified.

He can’t do this.

Henry is going to have to face him in the morning, and he can predict how it’s going to go, because it’s printed at the top of the first page of the Alex Claremont-Diaz Guidebook in bolded, size 72, comic sans font:

  1. Alex, whether he realizes it or not, is a very emotional creature.
  2. When he needs answers, Alex has no hang-ups about resorting to dramatics to get them.
  3. You cannot argue with Alex once his heart is involved.
  4. Alex believes he can do anything.
  5. Alex will not be ignored.



He can’t do this. 

When Alex confronts him, Henry can’t deny just how deeply in love he is, and he can’t omit that information either.

When Alex demands to know just what the hell is going on, the only way to make it stop is to lie, and Henry can’t lie to him.

And worst of all, there is no going back from this. He will have to stand up, look into the dark brown eyes of the single best thing that has ever happened to him, and crush everything into dust.

He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t

Alex’s sleep is a shallow and tenuous thing on a good day. Henry would give anything to kiss him right now, to give him a proper goodbye instead of the shameful and cowardly mess he’s leaving behind. But his hands are shaking and his cheeks are wet and his composure is hanging on by a thread, so he just watches him sleep. Then, when Alex stirs and rolls over to face him, Henry slips away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know now that what I have done is wrong.   
> And so I say, I am sorry, Henry.   
> I am sorry, reader.   
> I am sorry, citizens of Bikini Bottom.
> 
> Please throw peanuts at me in the comments.


	8. What A Sick, Masochistic Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry lays on the floor for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I have this tagged as "light angst," and I promise that I meant it when I tagged it. But y'all know the story, so you also know that once we're done here, there is cute shit on the horizon.

The first day, he thinks, will be the hardest. It’s a long flight back to London, and one without any semblance of privacy. So he slides into a state of shock and lets it gag him. It was preferable to hearing himself echo off the high ceiling of his bedroom, because the absolute last thing he wants to hear now is the sound of his own voice. His phone is off, and he banishes it to his bedside drawer beside that sodding newspaper. 

The second day brings with it new challenges. He tires of smelling himself and submits to a shower, but hisses when the hot water meets the still-rosy skin atop his shoulders and his cheeks. It’s beginning to peel. Brilliant. He can shave, at least. That’s something. Serving trays go in and out, and nothing else. David hasn’t left his side.

The third day sees him become active again, though that is a generous way of putting it. Mobile is more accurate. He is no less wretched than when he arrived. He experiments with leaving his room, though only under cover of darkness. At three in the morning, he opens the freezer to find a box of Cornettos staring back at him, and promptly loses his already timid appetite.

On the fourth day, Beatrice returns from some function in Denmark. No doubt she has heard that he arrived back two days earlier than was planned. She knocks carefully on his door with a _hey, love_ but he sends her away. _The prince is indisposed_ , he tells the staff. She doesn’t dispute it. His schedule magically clears, and thank god, because Prince Charming is not an act he is capable of pulling off for anyone at the moment. Henry is all frog for the foreseeable future.

On the fifth day, he is fully dressed. There is no official order to bar potential callers from the house, but Shaan, a blessedly perceptive man, knows that it goes without saying. Communication with the outside world is highly unwelcome, so only the most essential facts regarding the family trickle in. Bea’s presence wafts through the house, gentle and benevolent, patiently waiting for him to let her in. Verbalizing it is still too much.

And so here he is, confined to his gilded lair to brood and play sad piano like Edward fucking Cullen and hope that this mess doesn’t finally, actually kill him.

Maybe it will. Maybe he will succumb to a broken heart or some other dubious Victorian malady and be spared any further fallout. The past lays behind him, so sweet and tainted, and the future stands sternly before him, black and utterly opaque, like the Shadow Fold. He similarly knows what resides there, and he is not keen to get a closer look. 

There are exactly two topics that are capable of surviving Henry’s stomach acid. Option One is how much Alex must despise him for this. Or will, if he hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Confusion does not sit well with Alex. He’d sooner turn rabid than throw up his hands and move on. It’s also possible that he has taken this as a rejection, which deepens the fissures in Henry’s heart but reassures him that he’s done his job well enough. 

Option Two is the return to the original plan for the future. Military deployment to some cheery far-flung place like Jamaica or the Falkland Islands to receive salutes and look pretty in his uniform. The aristocracy’s answer to homes for delinquent youths. He will come home reformed and properly decorated and pick a pretty, unsuspecting wife from a dwindling catalogue of acceptable noble candidates. And he will stand before the altar of Westminster Abbey, two whiskies in and jonesing for more, Philip standing beside him because Pez would have told him to run for it, while the world watches him ruin her life as well.

Life really does come full circle, doesn’t it? Won’t it be festive, nostalgic even, to stand in front of another frilly behemoth of white sugar and marzipan and feel that same pair of eyes leaving scorch marks on the back of his tux? What a jolly time they’ll all have while he glides around the dance floor, gazing over the shoulder of his newly-minted bride to pine desperately for this man when he has absolutely no right to do so. And then he has more staged photo ops and icy invitations to charity balls to look forward to after that, each time wishing he would be yanked out of the spotlight and into a vacant drawing room for skin-breaking kisses. Round and round we go.

Whatever Bea might tell him right now, good or bad, he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s itchy and restless and half dead of exhaustion and well aware that words won’t mend it. There’s no comfort to be had in words. So he’ll just keep groping fruitlessly in the dark for something to hold onto while he rides this out.

For a full second, the idea of “duty” is almost something. That’s because the concept has been drilled into his head since infancy. His duty to Queen and country. A romanticized ideal that is so hollow and delicate that its mantra-like repetition is the only thing keeping the Crown alive.

The monarchy is rubbish and always has been. A massive waste of tax money that persists only to make loads of people miserable and to put off having to change the national anthem. It’s a life sentence for crimes he didn’t commit, and he’d be just as happy to see it all burn to the ground. With the way things are going, none of that is likely to change anytime soon, so Henry is stuck with it. Like a punishment out of Greek mythology, but with slightly less homoeroticism. And yet, one simple change could salvage it. One little thing that would be truly inconsequential to the lives and functioning of the Crown but that might be enough to make Henry give a toss. _Ha._

If only his father were here. Or his mother in any meaningful way. Someone who hears the dull plodding of his weary heart and decides to _do something_ , because Henry has already proven that he doesn’t have it in him. As he drifts in and out of sleep, he is tearfully reminded that, if one is in the market for someone both capable and willing, there is only Alex, and that is almost worse than having no one at all.

The weather is absolutely ghastly. Black clouds hover overhead, spitting contemptuously between downpours, and he is grateful for it, because sunshine would be unbearably gauche and it’s easier to lose track of the time when the sun is hidden from view. It’s also excellent set dressing for feeling sorry for oneself and gazing at the blinking cursor on an empty Word document. Some of the greatest art in history was conceived in moments like this, the pain reborn into something meaningful, or at the very least useful. Perhaps he needs to pick up a drinking problem or an opium habit first.

The staring contest ends when Henry is jolted back to the present moment by some commotion downstairs. He catches only the tone and volume of voices but none of the substance and prays that whatever it is doesn’t evolve into a ruckus or, god help him, a hullabaloo. If it’s his conscience at the door, he would think the staff would have the good sense to tell it that he’s not at home.

It’s not going away, so he groans and rises from his chair like an old man from a pub stool and ambles towards the foyer in a similar fashion. He knows he looks terrible, even cleaned up and dressed as he is, though it hardly matters. It’s the sound of Alex’s voice, and then the sight of him at his door looking drenched and angry as a drowned cat, that strikes him dead.

He should have seen this coming. This is _Alex_ we’re talking about, after all. A man who has not once held back from pursuing what he wants, consequences or his own dignity be damned. A man who has seen dozens of romantic comedies--though good luck getting him to admit it--looked at all their barmy schemes and thought, “What an excellent idea!” At this particular moment, Henry would rather throw himself into the sea than acknowledge that this is--or would be were it not for literally everything else--terribly romantic. This man will be the death of him.

“Really nice,” Alex calls angrily as they ascend the stairs. “Fuckin’ ghost me for a week, make me stand in the rain like a brown John Cusack, and now you won’t even talk to me.”

The truth is that Henry is afraid to. History has taught him that one good look at Alex is enough to put him under some kind of spell, one which makes him think foolish things and act on even more foolish impulses. 

“I’d rather not do this where we might be overheard.”

“Do what? What are you gonna do, Henry?”

_Something awful._

Henry inhales carefully trying to keep his voice and his hands steady. “I’m going to let you say what you need to say so you can leave.”

“What, and then we’re over?”

There were words for this once, a number of things Henry had imagined saying if he ever saw Alex again, but they have all dissolved into the ether. Little else remains other than the sound of blood pulsing in his ears. His imagination would have left him ill-prepared anyways, because in none of his visions was hurt etched so plainly across Alex’s face. 

Anger repossesses Alex’s body, which is easier for Henry to manage. He’s indignant and utterly confused, and rightly so. Part of Henry had hoped that Alex knows him better than to surmise that this is because he doesn’t _care_. If anything, Henry has been glaringly obvious about the seriousness of his affections. But to act as if that is the only thing holding them back is not only stupid, but, honestly, rather insulting.

“Jesus, could you stop being an obtuse fucking asshole for, like, twenty seconds?” Henry has to bite back a scathing retort outlining Alex’s hypocrisy.

“So glad you flew here to _insult me--”_

“ _I fucking love you, okay?”_

He always thought it would be a happy occasion if he got to hear a boy say that he loved him. The words would have been said softly, pressed carefully into his palm with fingers curling overtop because they were just too precious and too fragile to be treated any other way. Not chucked out onto the rug in a moment of righteous anger.

Henry looks at his hand, where his signet ring sits, mocking him as it always has, and he’s sick to death of seeing it. He can’t do this with an audience. So he sets it on the mantelpiece and trudges onward, letting Alex make this worse than it needs to be out of masochism or a lack of willpower.

“Was this all never going to be anything real to you?” The scream of frustration coiled in Henry’s stomach nearly lets loose

“When have I ever, since the first instant I touched you, pretended to be anything less than in love with you? Are you so fucking self-absorbed as to think this is about you and whether or not I love you, rather than the fact I’m heir to the fucking throne?”

There it is. The last card on the table. With no secrets left between them now, perhaps he will be able to get through Alex’s thick skull. Regardless, there is a tiny morsel of satisfaction to be found in Alex’s stunned silence. Not that it lasts.

Alex would make an excellent lawyer. The back-and-forth, Alex’s firm and heartfelt appeals, his lung capacity, are all wearing Henry down very efficiently. He would hate to see what would happen to someone Alex didn’t like. When did this turn into a fight? It’s hardly a fight at all. More like two people shouting anguished declarations of love past each other as if that is what’s in dispute, as if one of them is going to back down. 

Alex. Naive Alex. Sweet Alex. Alex, who has the world laid out at his feet with paths stretching out in a hundred directions but keeps picking this one, who takes for granted that everything will sort itself out in his favor if he wants it badly enough, is still somehow under the illusion that this is a simple matter of saying yes. It’s maddening. This isn’t skydiving. It’s jumping out of a plane over shark-infested waters with no parachute. The worst part is that Henry is still tempted to jump anyway.

“You know what? Fucking fine. I’ll leave.”

“Good.” 

Alex does not move, and in fact looks less inclined to move than Henry has ever seen him.

“I’ll leave as soon as you tell me to leave.”

“ _Alex_ ,” he croaks. He’s so dangerously close. Close enough to smell this cologne over the rainwater soaking his jacket. Close enough to drop his forehead on the boy’s shoulder and soak it some more.

“Tell me you’re done with me, I’ll get back on the plane. That’s it.” Henry’s lip quivers. Alex has him cornered. It’s the one thing he believes Henry isn’t strong enough to do, the bloody optimist. “Just say it.”

“ _Fuck you._ ” 

Henry has been doing his very best not to cry for this entire ordeal, and it’s not going very well. Whatever resolve he had before has collapsed from fatigue, and now his vision is clouded with tears and his voice too wrecked to speak. They’re long past the point where Henry can articulate any of this with words, so he has to show Alex and pray that he understands. 

The bruising kisses try to say that Henry loves him and should have told him and he’s sorry, but also that part of him is deliriously happy and full and overwhelmed that Alex loves him too, even if this is the last time he will ever hear it. That he doesn’t want this to be the last time he hears it.

The hands frantically clawing at Alex’s skin tell him that he’s wanted, desperately, constantly, always. That the distance was a ruse, and a terrible one at that, and to please, _please_ forgive Henry for ever making him believe otherwise, because none of this is Alex’s fault except for being so reckless as to fall in love with a prince.

The legs wrapped around Alex’s waist say that Henry belongs to him, that he always has, and that is never going to change. That Henry is hopeless and out of control and needs Alex to pin him to the earth and keep him there because he’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. And Henry will hold him here, too. For as long as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends. Sorry that I'm later than usual. Henry and I both have been busy brooding over the loss of dumb boys, so it's all coming out a bit slower than usual. I will try to be better for the next chapter.
> 
> And thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment. If you aren't enjoying it, you can also leave a comment. If you feel guilty for enjoying it because Henry is in pain, leave two comments.
> 
> Next chapter: Pemberley and Prince Consort Road


End file.
